Perishing Nirvana
by snappie
Summary: They say that your thoughts come really clearly before you die. They say that your whole life passes before your eyes. In a way, they’re right. It does and the process is called living.


_"I have to go now," you say, the words wrenching your heart in two.  You step forward and plant a chaste kiss on her cheek.  She tries to pull you closer, tries to catch one last grasp at your form.  You dodge out of her reach.  But now you wish you had allowed her to be close to you in your parting moments, you wish you had something to hold on to.  A memory that wasn't tainted, like all the others. You straighten your robes and run your fingers through your hair.  "If I don't come back...," you  say, unable to finish the sentence.  The tears start to come; they make sooty trails in her mascara and cut lines through her foundation.  Even makeup would not mask her sorrow.  You turn away; she is ashamed of you, but still so deeply in love with you that it hurts.  You hear the footsteps pattering after you and feel a hand on your arm, the touch is bittersweet.  You didn't want it to be this way, but you cannot associate with them anymore.  You will never be that ideal that she tried to change you to.  You will never be day, you will never be sweet, you will never be what's good in the world, only what isn't.  The background was almost buried until now.  But now you must be strong, you must fight for what was once imposed on you and what you came to believe in.  You must peel back the facade you have been hiding under, change the scene you have been acting in, make the transition from light to dark once more.  You turn to her and she looks at you with sorrow in her eyes._

_"Do you have to-?" she asks in a quavering voice._

_"Yes.  It's for the best," you reply.  She says nothing and you turn to leave. You walk away from my hopes, dreams and love and the only thing you can hear now is the thunk of your boots on the ground and the crunch of the gravel under your feet.  You can smell the pine trees nearby, their tangy odour pervading the air with undertones of wet grass and the faint smell of her perfume. You swing your legs over your broomstick, wishing - hoping that something will prevent you from doing what you are about to do.  You wait, but there are no cries of indignation, of sorrow at your departure.  You have never felt so alone. You take off, and fly away, never looking back._

As you remember these words, hands clasped around a cup of tea, prowling in what you like to call your domain, a tear slips past your mask of strength and ruthlessness.  You swipe at it with a sleeve, desperate for none others to follow.  Nothing must break through the mask you have borne for so long.  You reach into your pocket, drawing out a dog-eared Muggle photograph of the woman you left so long ago.  Your heart wrenches, as it always does with this picture.  Not one owl.  Not one owl in your whole three years here.  But still, her beauty shines from the picture.  She almost changed you.  She almost changed you from who you were.  The missive sent you running back.  Your past was something of a significant embarrassment for her.  She tried to convert you, but you went crawling back to the Dark side, tail between your legs, head down.  Wimp.  Pathetic, worthless, pitiful.  You even disgust yourself.  Was she worth that little to you?  Couldn't you see her pain?  Now, fighting for the Dark, with all the other minions, you wonder what it would be like to be good, kind, sweet.  Unlikely you will ever experience it again.  You have leave soon.  A small window of opportunity to escape.  Even Voldemort is merciful with his troops.  Sometimes.  Your feet, laced tight in their boots are quickly losing all feelings from cold and your fingers are set to go the same way.  Yet, you hold onto that thought, for it is strangely comforting.  You wonder what she is doing now, would she be thinking of you the way you are of her?  You couldn't say for sure, it has been so long.  Your mind is made up.  Even now when the word Voldemort passes your lips, it is not without some loathing.  This was your father's doing.  It was not yours.  However, you were not strong enough to resist.  You did not want to face the consequences, too scared to let him come and claim your life for deserting him.  To know he could kill you in one moment, with a snap of his fingers, he could watch your life seep away.

******

                You have waited for this moment.  Your hopes are high.  You are on leave.  You carefully navigate on your broom, following the roads you know, knew so well.  They are mere ghosts in your memory now.  The house.  You touch down lightly in the front garden, and you hear shouts of laughter from the back.  A man's voice, and that of a small child.  And then her voice, sweet and resonant.  You survey the garden.  You notice the swing you made together, you remember looping the rope over the branch and her shrieking with laughter as you pushed her higher and higher.  What is there now is a piece of green, rotting rope and the seat has been cruelly split in half.  You remember the tree you planted together and turn to it, to see its progress.  It is still there, and flourishing.  You move closer to it, to examine it further.  Initials curved into the trunk.  In a heart.  H+G FOREVER.  You might have known.  Frowning, you turn to the tree house, the one you made together one summer.  You remember the argument you had about what colour to paint it: you wanted green and she wanted… What had she wanted?  Such a trivial argument.  It was painted green in the end.  You were stubborn.  The paint is peeling off, the tree house looks abandoned.  You can see the wood is decaying slowly.  You turn abruptly, gravel flying in all directions.  With deliberately heavy footsteps you walk towards the back of what was once your house.  There she is.  The one true love in your life, looking beautiful in a demure yellow sundress.  A handsome raven-haired man plays on the lawn with his son.  You know him all too well.  He picks up his son and throws him into the air, causing him to shriek with delight.  He walks over to his young wife and places a proprietary hand about her waist, pressing a kiss to her forehead.  The whole scene looks so idyllic.  You want to vomit.  Suddenly, there are shouts of laughter and he is drenched from head to toe in water.  You look to the perpetrator – his two-year-old son.  You cough softly.  Suddenly, all is quiet in the yard: you have intruded.  He comes towards you.

"What do you want?" his tone is neither harsh, nor welcoming, just quizzical.

"I..I-" you stutter, feeling your heart sink to your boots.  "I need to talk with Ginny."

He casts a glance at her, and she nods slightly.  You despise his questioning green-eyed stare.  He hoists up his son onto his shoulders.

"Come on, Oliver, we are going for a little walk."  He leaves the yard, leaving you alone with her.  Virginia.  Ginny.  Your Gin.

"You said… You said-" she starts, unable to finish.

"I know what I said," you snap, causing her to flinch, "I said for you to marry if I never returned.  But I have."

"Not a word from you in three years! Three years, Draco.  I thought you were dead."

"But you never waited.  You said you would wait," you say, trying to make her feel guilty.

"I waited a whole year.  Then I couldn't wait anymore.  I married Harry, I loved him."

"You loved him? Do you not love him now?" you ask, a glimmer of hope creeping into your voice.

This leaves her momentarily flustered.  "Of course I do," she eventually says.

"How could you just turn off what we have, had, just like that?" you bark, suddenly angry.

She looks at you, eyes filled with anguish.  You feel guilty for wanting to hurt her.  "I didn't," is her sole response.

Your heart lifts.  You take a step towards her, but she steps back.  You stop, confused.  This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.  "Leave Harry.  Come away with me when this war is over."

"You don't understand," she explains, "I love you, I always will, but I am not in love with you.  I am in love with Harry."

"Just hold me one last time," you hear yourself say, for years serving as a minion to Voldemort meant you had to be impassive in every waking moment.  Affection was for the weak.  So help you, you're weak too.  You need this.

She walks towards you and encircles her arms around your neck in the embrace you knew so well.  You bury your head in her shoulder, almost losing yourself in the delirium of being held, of feeling tenderness.  You take deep breaths of her hair, which smells just as you remember.  If Harry could see you now...  You feel your throat tighten.  You squeeze your eyes shut to hold the tears in.  Voldemort taught you never to cry.  

"Draco?"

"Mmm?" Not trusting yourself to speak, it is all you can manage.

"Are you okay?"

You lean away from her, not afraid for her to see the tears in your eyes.  Not afraid to let her see what you feel.  A thought.  You grip her suddenly.  "I know it's hard," you begin, your words coming out in a rush, "but please try to forgive me.  Try to love me the way you loved me back then and the way you love Harry now."

"Draco-" she holds up a hand to silence you.  "I cannot promise you.  I love Harry, he fights for what I believe in.  I love you, but I cannot love your past.  Please go, Draco, and please don't come back."

It hurts.  It sears.  It hurts more than when your father used the Cruciatus curse on you.  It hurts more than receiving the Dark Mark.  She presses a kiss to your forehead and gives you a slight push.  Your shoulders heaving with sobs, you leave.

******

                Later, two years later at that, you reflect, alone with your thoughts.  Alone, you are always alone.  The war is nearly over, and Harry Potter, Order of Merlin, First Class, is leading the Light Side to victory.  You have tainted her pure, unwavering love for you.  You cannot be sure she will have you back.  And what do you have to show for it?  What did you gain?  Nothing.  Pop quiz: What have you achieved in your life that you feel most proud of?  You would have to leave that question blank.  But, perhaps you can remedy it.  Maybe, just maybe, she is still waiting.  The swing will be fixed, the tree house no longer forgotten, the tree untouched from Harry's existence of which you find so painful.  You aren't sorry for loving her, who could be? Even if you lost you your respect from your father, you still loved her.  You still do.  You had hoped that by doing this, by fighting for what your father thought right, you could prove him wrong, that you could rectify all.  After all, a man cannot choose whom he falls in love with, can he?  You know your father would beg to differ.  You sit down heavily on your haunches, pressing your back against the cold wall.  Never to show emotion.  Everyday, you witnessed hordes upon hordes of soldiers tramping, wands at the ready, robes immaculately pressed, all wearing the same vacant expression.  It saddens you; these men have lost their youth, their sense of vitality.  You lost yours a long time ago.  You can only feel, and never show.  Weakness in emotional stability is a deadly flaw, here on the battlefield.  A memory surfaces, and you allow it to breathe.  What harm can it do now?  You are just an extension of Voldemort's being like all these other clones.  You aren't your own person anymore.  You crave human touch, human interaction.  Losing yourself in memories helps you to escape the present.

_A deserted classroom.  You stand pensively, facing the window, staring out onto the Lake.  The door opens behind you.  You turn stiffly, not expecting an intrusion.  It is her; it is the bane of your life; it is Ginny Weasley.  You can see by the way she fiddles with her robe and wrings her hands that she has something to say._

_"Well, Weasley?  Spit it out."   Cold, but a calm tone nonetheless._

_"I came to apologise about what Ron said.  He had no right to say those things."  Fearful brown eyes look searchingly into your own, trying to seek out your thoughts.  You prefer to keep your eyes unreadable._

_You sneer.  "Was he too scared to face me himself?"  It was a low comment, even for a Weasley.  Insulting your Father was one thing, but your dead Mother – well, that was another._

_She takes a step towards you.  "He was just defending me.  I came to say sorry," she says, voice a little unsteady.  _

_"You've said your piece.  Now leave," you state, turning to face the window once more.  A hand on your arm startles you.  You turn slightly to face her._

_"Please," she begs, tears beginning to form in her eyes, "I just want you to accept my apology, so we are even."_

_"Even? We will never be even.  You.  Are.  Beneath.  Me."  A slap strikes you, the sound ricocheting around the room.  You wish you could hit back.  You wish you could pummel **something senseless until your grief is spent.  You slowly raise a hand to your cheek, feeling the blood rush to it.  Footsteps echoing across the room tell you she's about to leave.  "Wait."  An instant effect.  The footsteps cease.  Your Father would kill you for this.  "I'm sorry.**_

She certainly had a bizarre effect on you.  She made you apologise, which you had never done for any woman.  Maybe this was where you fell in love.  That day, in that classroom, when she slapped you, you learned to love.  It wasn't her beauty; she was by no means beautiful then, but her charisma which intrigued you.  Her volatile, passionate personality, which fluctuated from one end of the scale to the other held mysteries unexplained.  Mercurial.  That was the word.  She would age into beauty, but her personality would remain ever young; whether she was petulant or happy.  She just was the white to your black and the silver lining to your cloud.  She just _was_ and you were grateful for that.  You would take your leave.  You just want to be loved again.  Taking your broomstick, you kick off from the camp.  

******

                Flying only by night and resting during the day, you approach your target slowly.  As you come closer to your diminutive village, it is now you start to notice the signs of wreckage around you.  Upon reaching your old house, you see they Voldemort left no stone unturned, much less your house.  The once proud cottage with its red tiled roof and green shutters is now completely gutted from some kind of fire which has ravaged its way through your house, consuming your memories and desecrating everything in its path.  Touching down, you notice one thing has remained.  One thing flourishes amongst the wreckage.  The tree, ironically still with the carving on it, the one that you loathe so very much.  You have no time to stand here.  Your eyes settle on your dilapidated little cottage, once more.  Taking a deep breath you walk towards it, the porch now just a bare skeleton; the rest of it is in cinders and has long since blown into the wind.  Running a hand over the wooden frame, you pass into the house.  The floorboards are charred timbers, black fingers grasping just by the nails to each other and the strange thing is that the curtains still remain.  Those hideous creations donated when you had first moved in.  The ones she insisted on putting up and you sulked for days – do you remember? Rusty keys hang on a hook by the door.  You turn into the room on the left, the lounge.  It is unrecognisable, destroyed beyond belief.  A dark red stain mars one of the bare walls.  You walk over to inspect it.  It is blood, albeit dried, congealed, but blood.  Something had happened here, maybe days, maybe months ago.  But something had happened.  Lord Voldemort had finally come to claim what was his.  The ghost of what was once a piano lurks in the corner of the room, keys splintered, lid scorched.  Music still intact.  You pick it up to see what it is.  _"Fur Elise," _the title reads.  You place a hand on the piano.  You press down.  The note sounds clear and sweet, disturbing the silence.  You get up again, feeling uneasy.  You carry onto the adjoining room, the kitchen.  Nothing remains.  Nothing worth salvaging.  You press on.  Your study.  Papers litter the floor.  A photograph catches your attention.  A picture of Ginny and Harry, waving madly at the camera, each sporting an identical grin.  You pass out of here and back into the hallway once more.  To the right is the staircase and the door leading down to the cellar.  It is slightly ajar.  Your feet clunk heavily in their army-issue boots to the foot of the stairs.  You place your foot on the first step, unsure if the stairs will hold out for you.  You hear a slight sound.  A cry, perhaps.  But there should be nobody here.  They were killed.  All you want is a relic, something you can salvage, a dress, a shoe, a love-letter.  You move your other foot to the second stair and the sound comes again.  It definitely happened, there is no mistaking it.  You turn back to the cellar door and walk slowly back towards it.  You open the door slowly and light floods into the dark, damp room.  A figure sits huddled in the corner.  It looks up and slowly dawns with recognition.  It is her, it is your Gin.

"Ginny?" You are cautiously venturing down the steps towards her.  "Ginny?" you ask, in disbelief.  She nods.

"Draco," she says, acknowledging you.  There is no wonder in her voice, only acute misery and suffering.  There is a silence.  "They've killed Harry.  They've killed Harry, so help me and they have taken my son.  Only I remain.  Voldemort left me for dead." On the mention of his name, she fixes you with a piercing gaze, with her doe-like, soulful brown eyes.

"Ginny, I—" you falter, and start to walk towards her.  "But how? Why?"

"Voldemort came to claim what Harry owed to him for all those years – his life." She coughs, her body rippling.  A few drops of blood appear on her cracked, parched lips.  You raise your hand to wipe them away, but she shrinks as far away as she can from your touch.

"Ginny, we have to get you to a doctor. Or at least someone who will be able to help you," you say, extending a hand.

Still she shrinks away.  You scoop her body into your arms, she is alarmingly thin and bones jut out alarmingly into your body.  

"Don't waste your time on me," she whispers.  "Find my son, please find my Oliver."

It's like ripping your heart into pieces before your very eyes.  You say nothing, but hear her breath getting fainter and more laboured.  You tread on the last cellar step and walk through the open door.  "I love you, I always have.  I'm going to take you somewhere where they can cure you and make you better," you say, walking to the front door.  She shudders in your arms.  They say that your thoughts come really clearly before you die.  They say that your whole life passes before your eyes.  In a way, they're right.  It does and the process is called living.  

"I'm going to die.  I know it, you don't need to hide the truth from me, or bother taking me to a hospital.  I know what's coming.  I want to say goodbye." Her voice is becoming quieter and quieter and every word is forced out, with effort.

"Ginny-" you start, but she interrupts you.  You stoop to walk through the doorway.  You realise now that she may not make it after all.  After all this waiting, after all this suffering, you have finally found your nirvana, and it is perishing with every breath of air drawn into the lungs, every step you take forwards.

Her eyes half-closed; she gasps her final piece.  "I will always love you." Her body goes limp, the life ebbs from it just as you reach the porch.  And you hold her, kneeling on the porch you hold her.  And you weep.  You leave.  There is nothing for you here now.


End file.
